Bell Robson was partly aware of the state of things, as far as it lay on the surface.  She was not aware how deep down certain feelings had penetrated into the girl’s heart who sat on the other side of the fire, with a little sad air diffused over her face and figure.  Bell looked upon Sylvia as still a child, to be warned off forbidden things by threats of danger.  But the forbidden thing was already tasted, and possible danger in its full acquisition only served to make it more precious-sweet.

Bell sat upright in her chair, gazing into the fire.  Her milk-white linen mob-cap fringed round and softened her face, from which the usual apple-red was banished by illness, and the features, from the same cause, rendered more prominent and stern.  She had a clean buff kerchief round her neck, and stuffed into the bosom of her Sunday woollen gown of dark blue,—­if she had been in working-trim she would have worn a bedgown like Sylvia’s.  Her sleeves were pinned back at the elbows, and her brown arms and hard-working hands lay crossed in unwonted idleness on her check apron.  Her knitting was by her side; and if she had been going through any accustomed calculation or consideration she would have had it busily clinking in her fingers.  But she had something quite beyond common to think about, and, perhaps, to speak about; and for the minute she was not equal to knitting.

‘Sylvie,’ she began at length, ’did I e’er tell thee on Nancy Hartley as I knew when I were a child?  I’m thinking a deal on her to-night; may-be it’s because I’ve been dreaming on yon old times.  She was a bonny lass as ever were seen, I’ve heerd folk say; but that were afore I knew her.  When I knew her she were crazy, poor wench; wi’ her black hair a-streaming down her back, and her eyes, as were a’most as black, allays crying out for pity, though never a word she spoke but “He once was here.”  Just that o’er and o’er again, whether she were cold or hot, full or hungry, “He once was here,” were all her speech.  She had been farm-servant to my mother’s brother—­James Hepburn, thy great-uncle as was; she were a poor, friendless wench, a parish ’prentice, but honest and gaum-like, till a lad, as nobody knowed, come o’er the hills one sheep-shearing fra’ Whitehaven; he had summat to do wi’ th’ sea, though not rightly to be called a sailor:  and he made a deal on Nancy Hartley, just to beguile the time like; and he went away and ne’er sent a thought after her more.  It’s the way as lads have; and there’s no holding ’em when they’re fellows as nobody knows—­neither where they come fro’, nor what they’ve been doing a’ their lives, till they come athwart some poor wench like Nancy Hartley.  She were but a softy after all:  for she left off doing her work in a proper manner.  I’ve heerd my aunt say as she found out as summat was wrong wi’ Nancy as soon as th’ milk turned bingy, for there ne’er had been such a clean lass about her milk-cans afore that; and from bad it grew to worse,